Mexicowoods—An Expatriate Life

The Basilica of our Lady of Guadalupe

We see images of Guadalupe all over San Miguel de Allende and indeed, all over Mexico: molded onto medallions, printed on post cards, airbrushed on pickup trucks, silkscreened on tee shirts... Two figures have been painted onto stucco walls less than a block from our home. 

Today we go to see the original image that according to legend miraculously appeared on  the cape of the peasant Juan Diego in 1531. It is housed in the Basilica de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe in Mexico City.

The image was originally housed in this building. But the number of people who come to view the image of Guadalupe continues to increase. Today millions come every year. Only Vatican City receives more visitors. The old church can't handle them all.

 

Moreover, the building is sinking into the soft soil and currently is undergoing restoration. Creaky columns get new stones held together by steel braces while mortar sets.

We walk through the church to the sound of hammering. Burly workmen in hard hats grunt as they haul a new altar rail into place. It's all most un-churchlike.

In 1974 the Church commissioned architect Pedro Ramírez Vázquez to design a larger basilica to handle the crowds of pilgrims and tourists. I think his design is brilliant.

 

In the photo above, the pilgrim wearing a red shirt walks to the basilica on his knees, a common practice among the devout. I marvel at the number of people who venerate Guadalupe and the depth of their devotion.

An arc of pews facing a high altar provides seating for about 10,000 people. For certain ceremonies, temporary seats increase the basilica's capacity to 40,000.

 

Juan Diego's original robe, the garment on which the famous image of Guadalupe appeared, now hangs above the altar, surrounded by a gilded sculpture.

Visitors get a close-up view of the her image by riding one of three people movers. The airport-style moving walkway seems to be a reasonable solution to handling the crowds, especially in December when more than two million people come to see her.

Visitors bring flowers for Guadalupe. An organized pilgrim group brought this large arrangement.

 

Individuals and families lay bouquets at the altar. They bring so many that an attendant has to haul them away every half hour or so.

The new basilica had been completed by the time Pope John Paul II stopped at the basilica during his tour of Mexico in 1979. No way he was going to miss it. A large brass statue commemorates the event. The metal for the sculpture came from many thousands of brass keys donated by the faithful and collected in parishes all over the country.

 

The popemobile was left behind, displayed for visitors to see. It looks like a modified Mexico City bus. The greenish windows in the sides of the vehicle are made of thick bulletproof glass. We live in violent times.

 

The circular building with an upward sweep of the conical roof draws all eyes to the sacred image. Everywhere lighting is dim except on the famous figure.

The design succeeds in creating space for bringing together the image of Guadalupe and the millions who visit her. Believers and nonbelievers alike cannot fail to be awed by the experience.

Teotihuacan

Yesterday I mentioned Mexicans' propensity for leaving stoneworks behind. An old military outpost, a crumbling chapel, a humble dwelling open to the sky—they're all interesting and often photogenic. But stoneworkers have been stacking rocks for centuries, since well before the Spanish got here. And these Prehispanic works are arguably their greatest achievements.

Laura and I have run down to Mexico City to immerse ourselves in the big tourist attractions. Our first stop is the Teotihuacan Pyramids, one of the Mexico's greatest archeological sites, ranking up there with Chichén Itzá and Uxmal.

We enter the site from the south, making our way toward the Pyramid of the Sun, intent on climbing it. Ever rebellious, we eschew the Avenue of the Dead, finding ourselves alone on a service road arcing around to the east. We feel as if we have thousands of acres all to ourselves.

 

Teenagers have come this way, unable to resist an urge to leave graffiti carved into maguey leaves. "Erika, I love you. Sincerely, Fabian."

The climb looks formidable. We take full advantage of the breaks in the steep steps to catch our breath. The air is thin at 7,200' and the conditioning we get running up and down the Chorro Steps isn't preparation enough for this climb.

 

The pyramids are built of millions of cubic yards of adobe faced with stone. Originally finished with thick plaster painted red, today we see rocks sticking out of the surface. Their purpose was to anchor the decorative facing to keep it from sliding off under the forces of erosion and earthquakes. The surface we see is a restoration, part of an effort begun at the beginning of the 20th Century.

 

Teotihuacan is a world-class destination. A pair of Japanese tourists make their way down the pyramid steps.

 

Years ago, Wal-Mart built a mega-store in the town near the pyramids. The intellectual left reacted in outrage that a symbol of U. S. hegemony would despoil the country's cultural heritage. From atop the pyramid I search in vain for the offending building. I am unable to make it out, but the stacks of the coal burning CFE power plant stand out plainly on the horizon.

 

Lots of people visit the site. I estimate this row of buses carried a thousand visitors here today.

 

Yet there's never a sense of crowding. The place is simply too big. There are hundreds of people in this photograph. You can barely make out a large tour group just to the right of the point where the pavement turns from red to black.

 

Once atop the Pyramid of the Sun, no one is anxious to hurry back down. We invest too much energy to squander it on a quick visit. This visitor reads up on Teotihuacan in her guidebook, raising her eyes from time to time to contemplate the Pyramid of the Moon.

 

Throughout the site vendors harass visitors, offering cheesy bows and arrows, obsidian masks, Mayan calendars and the like. Purported handcrafts, they somehow all manage to look manufactured. A favorite is a toy that makes sound like the cry of a cheetah. We hear big cat screams all day long.

 

We find a more satisfying cat tucked into the side of a minor platform. A painting of a cheetah has somehow escaped the ravages of erosion and vandalism. Teotihuacan must have once been a very colorful place.

 

Today it is more than a tourist attraction, more than an arena where licensed salesmen prey on gullible tourists. Teotihuacan is a major archeological research site. Careful excavation reveals rich detail about the lives of the original inhabitants and builders, thought to have numbered more than 100,000.

Archeological workers screen excavated soil to recover small artifacts.

 

Eventually we descend the Pyramid of the Sun and walk along the Avenue of the Dead past scores of platforms.

 

The avenue ends at the Pyramid of the Moon. We've done all the pyramid climbing we want, so we're satisfied just standing and contemplating it.



A day simply isn't enough to take all this in. I need more time. A vague sense of guilt steals over me for not working harder at trying to comprehend the society that built the Pyramids of Teotihuacan. The works left behind here are not the works of some primitive tribe of indigenos. A sophisticated administrative and social structure was required to create a city on this scale.

That the builders were brilliant is evident from these remains. That they were subject to the same follies as their descendants is also evident. Teothuacan was not conquered and razed by the conquistadores. The city collapsed sometime during the 7th or 8th Century, possibly in a civil war.

Canales

San Miguel's flat-roofed houses are built out to the lot lines. Rooftop terraces provide outdoor living space. With such designs, where does rainwater go? A common solution is to pierce rooftop terrace walls and channel water through pipes onto the street. The pipes are called canales.

Rudimentary canales consist of galvanized tin pipes no more robust than woodstove chimneys. They're ugly but functional.

Better homes feature carved cantera water spouts, some with metal extensions designed to cause runoff to pour into the street instead of on pedestrians navigating sidewalks during a downpour.

Cantera can be worked into any desired shape. Since canales serve as architectural elements in addition to the carrying water, some have fanciful shapes

Unintended plants take root. Birds perch on canales and excrete seeds. Cantera, composed of compressed volcanic soil, provides nutrients. And water is ample during the rainy season.

A line of carved rams drains a large terrace while adding interest to a colonial façade.

I captured this image during a torrential downpour a few years ago, showing canales in action.

Most of our streets lack gutters or storm drains. All that water pouring onto the cobblestones turns thoroughfares into rivers. Walking becomes impossible. For drivers, the torrent hides lurking potholes. Concentrating on negotiating the flood, it's easy to overlook the canales overhead. The sudden hammering of a stream of water on the car roof provides a startling reminder that when driving in a downpour, it's necessary to look up.

San Miguel View

Cashiers NC and Pensacola FL are great, but I'm glad to be back in San Miguel. A short walk confirms why I live here instead of up north.

Late afternoon sun lights up the San Francisco Church bell tower.

Walking from our home to a restaurant, this image leapt out. One of the pleasures of living in this colonial town is the wealth of beautiful views. I haven't tired of them even after six years.

Over the River and through the Woods

Grandma and Granddad have passed on, but Laura's mom and her three brothers have hung on to the old family home and the twenty acres of mountain land it sits on. The simple house contains three bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen and a genuine parlor. The latter is kept neat as a pin and appears to be used mainly for company (which we are not). The one small bathroom created an intricate logistical dance among four adults and visitors. During our stay, we learned to cope.

The original house is old. Signs of nineteenth-century construction methods can be seen. These ceiling boards show tool marks from a scrub plane. The boards were cut from trees felled on the homesite and flattened using the gently curved plane blade. The work must have taken many hours and a lot of sweat.

The family calls this log shed the Apple House. The old orchard at the front of the main house suggests it was used to store fruit.

The Apple House is actually a small log cabin. Log ends are locked together using a triangular notch. I suspect this approach is easier (but less stable) than cutting the usual rectangular notches.

Above right, grooves in the sides of the logs give convincing evidence they were squared with a broadaxe—a tool generally seen only in antique shops.

On the inside of the Apple House, mud chinking between the logs can be seen. Built by Laura's great-grandfather, the family claims his thumbprints can still be seen pressed into the mud.

Living in old houses is one thing: my former home on Aldama in San Miguel dates from the mid-eighteenth century—far older than this mountain home. But what makes this place special is that it has been occupied by the same family ever since it was built over a hundred years ago. To its owners, its history has more significance than any colonial Mexican mansion could possibly have for Johnny-come-lately expat newcomers.

Laura's mom, her uncles and cousins and their families all crowded into the old house. We had to take turns sitting, the place is so small. We cooked a country ham. We harvested last-of-the-season squash and potatoes from the garden and ate those too. We found enough windfall apples and pears to make a pie. One of Laura's uncles picked guitar and sang. And in this way, we continued the chain of life that has come down through the generations in this old family home.